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The revolutionary will eventually fall silentHe won’t care, but only pretendHis war cries would mark no epochMemories that won’t heal, but rather mockWith bullets lodged so deepThey’ll leave no wound to fester, no pain to weep

Under the horrifying infinitudeI gaspClinging to her tressthat wafted like a purple squallTo break free from the choke-hold of chaosStasis subsidesWith lips foaming, convulsingI nibble at her navelthe girth, the bosomPalpatingAs she sniffs the soil underneath my fingernails

I think I am a child of Border Areas, deprived of that certain sense of belonging which comes with living in the mainland. Our world lies sequestered between the barbed wire of the enemy on one side and the picket fence of the society on the other. That vaunted culture doesn’t run in our blood, for it has been shed too often. We don’t like to waste our evenings listening to lifesaving hymns but would rather drink and dine to the glory of those who entered Valhalla from here. The rumble of tanks at Patton Nagar of Khemkaran, the clinking of grenades unpinned by Havaldar Abdul Hamid at village Assal Uttar and the sonic boom from the aircraft dogfights over Tarn Taran still reverberate in our souls. We have chosen backwardness over backing out.